Watching Her

by Harlem Dae

What kind of crazy signalling system did they have going on where the place had to become all doom and gloom if people using the house didn’t want to be disturbed? Wouldn’t it be better to simply fly a flag like a pirate ship? Or allow black smoke to pour from the chimney the way the cardinals did when choosing a new pontiff?

  I set the tea down and listened to Sutton’s footsteps as he moved about the house, checking shutters.

  Sitting on the mantel of a great fireplace that held dried flowers were several candles and a lighter. I guessed the occupants of this house, the ones who looked after it, had become accustomed to their murky existence. I lit the tapers, and the small flames quivered to life sending golden shadows over the pristine room.

  With a sigh I sat, reached for my tea, and blew the surface. The tiny ripple spread out, fanning over the liquid. How simple life must be if all one had to do was ripple. I’d rippled once, right up until I’d met Sutton. My hurts had been buried deep, and I thought I’d been successful in adulting, but all those scars had turned back into scabs, and I wanted to pick at them to see what still remained beneath.

  Masochist.

  I sipped. I’d swap the damp tidal wave my life had become for a ripple in a heartbeat. Father owned properties either side of this one to eliminate the issue of neighbours? Shutters open meant open for business? What business? And who the heck had collected the boat with Sutton’s murder victims on it?

  Once again the Albino’s words came back to me.

  ‘How do you know who to trust?’

  Sutton. I trusted him. I’d made that decision on the boat when I hadn’t jumped ship and made a run for it in the port in St Lucia. I’d had to pick someone to trust and he’d seemed like the best option.

  Plus, it all added up—his links to my father, this place, so familiar and containing Rupert Montague-Fostrop’s things. How Sutton had spoken to him on the phone. Guilia.

  Unless it was some elaborate set-up?

  I looked around the room and drew my legs up beneath myself.

  Maybe it was all designed to trick me, make me trust Sutton.

  But why?

  If he were out to get me, he would have by now.

  If they were actually holding me to ransom without me knowing, why bother? Why bother with the charade? Why not tie me up, gag me, blindfold me, and let me sit in a damp cellar somewhere until Father paid up?

  No. Sutton was my man. The one keeping me safe while Father got his act together and cleaned up whatever goddamn mess he’d created.

  I sank back into the large cushions, suddenly weary. My life was a jigsaw with missing pieces, and for now I had no hope of completing the puzzle.

  A visual of Guilia came to me. Forever, it seemed, I’d had no image of her. Nothing to go on. But now I knew what she looked like and could imagine her here, playing with her Christmas doll on the sofa opposite. Chattering. Father here, too, smiling, a doting grandfather. Maybe he’d take photographs of her, of us together, frame them and have them on show back in England.

  Does she even speak English?

  “Ah, there’s my tea. I was looking for that.” Sutton stalked into the room, shifting the air and making the candles flutter. He still had the rifle slung over his shoulder by a strap.

  I held in a sharp retort, irritated that he’d disturbed my daydream.

  He sat in the spot I’d just imagined Guilia playing. By doing that he’d erased her, and I wanted to scream at him to get up, get out, so my little girl could come back. I’d been through this once already—the torment, the mourning, the absolute soul-destroying pain. Those had been my scars that were now scabs again. I’d have to live through it all once more—but this time I was determined that when I found her, I would have trouble letting her go again.

  When I found her.

  As if that’s ever going to happen.

  I huffed and took another sip of tea. “It’s miserable in here. Dark.”

  “How it has to be if we’re to keep ourselves private.”

  “Private? You mean holed up like criminals.” I paused. “Oh wait, you are a criminal.”

  He frowned at me over the rim of his teacup.

  “I’m pretty sure murder is the most serious crime of all.” I was goading him, I knew I was. I couldn’t help myself. “Death sentence in this state, I should imagine. You’re not in good old Blighty anymore, you know.”

  “I told you before, you don’t know anything about me, Claudine.”

  “Hah, yet you think you know everything about me?”

  “What I need to, to keep you safe.” He shook his head. “And stop looking at me as though pulling out fingernails, putting cigarette burns in unmentionable places, and indulging in gang rape are my hobbies.”

  “Well aren’t they?”

  “No, unlike these people your father is protecting you from. I’m protecting you from. They’d list all of those activities as weekend past-times.”

  I suppressed a shudder. They didn’t sound like a pleasant bunch at all.

  “And are they still looking for me?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because when it’s…things are fixed, your father will let me know.”

  “How will it be fixed?”

  “You don’t need to know that.” He set the rifle at an angle, against the front of the sofa, the butt resting on a shaggy white rug and the tip on a dark embroidered cushion.

  “I do. I need to know everything, and what’s more, I’ll find out, eventually.”

  “You’ll be told whatever your father wants you to know.”

  “You really think he has that much control over me?”

  Sutton rubbed his finger across his chin; the faint scratch of his flesh dragging on his beard filtered towards me. “Yes.”

  Irritation swarmed through me. I pressed my lips together. Was it so transparent? I guessed it was. My father did control me. He had money and power, I had none. He had people who worked for him, I was alone.

  Should I ditch it all? Steal away in the dead of the night, ditch Sutton, ditch my identity? I could get to Mexico on that little boat, become Alma, Allyce, Aurellia, and melt into a Hispanic world where no one knew me. I could be a waitress, work a bar, I was sure of it. Cut my hair, get a tattoo, put on ten pounds.

  Couldn’t I?

  Sutton set his drink to one side and rested his head back. He shut his eyes.

  “Some lookout,” I muttered.

  “I sleep light.”

  I finished my tea and placed it on the low polished table between Sutton and myself. As I did so the robe fell open, revealing my upper thigh. I nestled back into the cushions and stroked my fingers over my skin, enjoying the sensation.

  Sutton was breathing steadily, I could hear him, just. Deep, long breaths that swelled his chest.

  Is he asleep already?

  I wondered how much shut-eye he’d had on the boat. The storm had been disturbing, yes, but he’d had more than the weather to contend with.

  He’d had me to look after and the anticipation of what the morning would bring.

  Murder.

  When had he last had sex? Was he a one-night stand man? Perhaps he had a steady girlfriend tucked up in a semi in some London suburb. I could imagine her now. She’d be a librarian or a primary school teacher, maybe even work for local government. Hair lank, clothes prim, and a rule of fuck me quietly under the duvet Wednesday and Saturday only, please. Missionary would be her position of choice, and chances were the poor bloke hadn’t had a blow job for years.

  I glanced at his crotch. His jeans had gathered, the folds of material not giving anything away to the size package he had going on. He was hairy, I knew that much, so he’d have a riot of pubic hair, and he tanned to a nice shade, so I imagined his shaft would be dark—that lovely bruised-plum colour which was so masculine and sexy. Was he circumcised? I couldn’t possibly know but I’d guess he wasn’t; might be wrong, though.

  I sneaked my hand a little high
er up my thigh. Stroking my skin. Beneath the robe my nipples tightened, and a flush of heat swathed up my spine.

  What would he do if I went over now, sat between his legs, and took out his dick? Would he bat me away? Or would he welcome an eager, talented mouth?

  I shifted on the sofa. The need to find out was almost overwhelming.

  Almost.

  The light from the candles lit the right side of his face. I was pretty sure he was properly asleep now—his lips were very slightly parted and his shoulders drooped against the cushions.

  I ran my other hand beneath the robe, skimming it over my breast. My hard nipples poked at my palm.

  He was pretty damn sexy, my guardian, sleeping in front of me. Fantasy material if murdering, sexually deprived, emotionally stunted men did it for you.

  Which for me, right here, right now, he did.

  I sought out my pussy and ran my fingers over my clit. The muscles in my pelvis contracted, and I held in a groan.

  Could I? With him sleeping right in front of me?

  Of course I could.

  I rubbed, just where I liked it; I was an expert in self-pleasure. The material of the gown whooshed as I picked up speed.

  How naughty was I, masturbating while wearing Father’s robe?

  I didn’t take my attention from Sutton. I thought of him opening his eyes. Seeing me doing myself. Then frantically ripping off his clothes and striding over to me. I’d want him to claim me, take me. Let all that pent-up frustration and need flood out. He could shove me to my back and bury deep. Tip me over the end of the sofa and take me from behind. A few swift slaps, maybe finish in my arse—that would all be right up my dirty little alley. So long as he ditched the sexual repression.

  My climax was building. It was hard to keep my breaths quiet as they were short and sharp. I worked on and on, shifting to meet my fingers, knowing the pressure was about to spill over.

  Suddenly it grabbed me, a deliciously sweet orgasm that lingered at the pinnacle, tumbling around my body, spreading bliss. I held my breath, struggled to keep my eyes on Sutton, and melted into the thudding spasms.

  As soon as it faded I righted the robe, covering myself, and reached for my tea.

  He hadn’t moved, hadn’t stirred. Oblivious to the fact a sexy woman had been getting herself off only feet from him and imagining him losing control. Fucking her in every way imaginable.

  Smiling, I sipped the last cool few drips of my tea. When I went to put it down I misjudged and it clattered over, luckily empty.

  I looked at Sutton, wondering if I’d woken him.

  I had.

  His gaze was fixed on me. In the low light his eyes were black, his lids heavy, his mouth a straight dark line almost hidden by his facial hair.

  There was something there, in his expression. It was unreadable. Undecipherable.

  It was as if here were seeing me anew. For the first time.

  Fuck. Had he been asleep? Or just relaxing?

  A flush of heat went through me, and I rubbed my fingertip against my thumb tip. A furnace switched on in the core of my torso. He’d heard me, seen, too, maybe, through the cracks of his eyelids.

  Did I care?

  No?

  So why was I on fire?

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I told you, I’m a light sleeper.” He stood and stretched his arms above his head. He locked his fingers, turned his palms outwards, and arched his back, creating a full body stretch.

  His T-shirt rose, giving me a glimpse of his flat belly and the tantalising spread of hairs that led from his navel to the waistband of his shorts.

  He made a strange sound, a groaning yawn, then dropped his hands back to his sides. “Food. We need food.”

  “Are we going to be all American and call for takeout?” I put a silly inflection on the last few words.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Oh, lighten up, Sutton.”

  “I’m light enough.” He stepped towards me.

  “You think?” I stood, beginning to feel hungry, too.

  “Yeah.” He went to walk from the room.

  “Well, you know what I think you need?”

  He paused and turned. “What?”

  I raised my chin. “A good fuck.”

  He nodded slowly. “Well, of course you’d think that, sex is your answer to everything.”

  “No it’s not. It just helps relieve the tension, you know, like those knots in your shoulders.”

  He took three paces up to me—long, determined paces.

  A ball of anxiety tightened in my stomach, and I had to force myself not to retreat a step or two.

  God, was this it? Was he going to lose control and fuck me? Finally?

  He was so close now, his wide shoulders blocking out the rest of the room, and his face hovering over mine. “You think knots in my shoulders are the most I’ve got to worry about?”

  “No. I’m just saying—”

  “Saying what?” He bit on his bottom lip, pressing the colour from it.

  I inhaled, pulled in his scent that was the open-ocean laced with spice. “I’m just saying—”

  “That you’re available as a stress reliever to me? That if I want to shoot my load into you I can?”

  “I wasn’t going to put it quite like that!”

  “Sorry, am I being too crude?” He huffed.

  “A little gentlemanly charm wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “I don’t get you.” He frowned.

  “What don’t you get?”

  “You have no inhibitions, no stop-button when it comes to sex, yet you don’t like a little dirty talk.”

  “I have no objection to dirty talk, it’s just better if everyone is naked and can follow up on it.”

  He reached up and touched the backs of his fingers to my cheek.

  I held my breath; his skin was warm, his caress gentle.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, he drifted his knuckles over my jawline. He had such a look of concentration on his face, as though committing my bone structure to memory.

  When he rested his hand around the column of my neck, thumb one side, fingers the other, I blew out the breath.

  “What the hell did they do to you?” he whispered.

  The press of his fingers and thumb, over my carotid arteries, was thrillingly dangerous. This man, this killer, could snuff me out in a few seconds.

  “No one did anything to me. Not that I didn’t want.” My skin was tingling. I felt a little floaty. I was lost in his eyes, which seemed to be boring into my soul, seeing the very depths of me.

  But I didn’t want him to see the damaged parts. They were private, they were mine.

  He slipped his hand lower, and my neck felt cool as his touch glided to the knotted sash around my waist.

  Not taking his attention from my face, he released the belt.

  Yes. This is it.

  My damp pussy trembled; a familiar shot of lust surged into my veins. “Sutton,” I said so quietly I hardly heard myself.

  His face hardened as he fully undid the belt. I hoped his cock was hardening, too.

  Carefully, he slipped the robe from my shoulders.

  I allowed it to float down my arms and land on the floor at my feet. Now I stood utterly naked before him. Naked and horny and all his.

  “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, taking a step back. “Quite a vision of perfection, on the outside at least.”

  I frowned. What the hell did he mean by that?

  His gaze drifted to my toes then back to my face.

  I puffed up my chest, allowing my nipples to jut out farther. God, I wanted his hands on them.

  “But the thing is,” he said, “fucking you isn’t in my job description.”

  “Does it have to be?” I smiled and ran my hand over my right breast.

  “I suppose not.”

  “So what are we waiting for?”

  He shook his head. “Believe it or not, Claudine, I don’
t want to fuck you.”

  “What?”

  “Nope.” Again he scanned my body, this time while shaking his head.

  “What are you? Gay?”

  “No, fully fledged heterosexual.”

  “You can’t be.” I cupped both breasts and scooped them up, as if offering them forward. “What kind of red-blooded, heterosexual man turns down this?”

  “This type, I suppose.” He turned and stepped to the doorway.

  “That’s it, run away, run away and have a wank. Hide the fact you have a raging hard-on.”

  “I’m not going for a wank, I’m going to make us some lunch.”

  I grabbed a cushion and flung it, as hard as I could at him. But it missed, catching the doorframe then skidding onto the hall floor. “Bastard!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Look, I really think we should at least try to become friends,” I said, sitting at the kitchen table. I’d pulled on jeans and a cropped T-shirt, not wanting to be in the robe he’d so casually removed from me.

  Sutton carried the food over. He placed it down—some sort of pasta dish in small bowls—and sat opposite me. “It’s not a good idea that we become friends.”

  “Why not? All this sniping isn’t good for my soul.” I was being flippant, but how else could I make him see that being near enemies wasn’t productive? We were in this together, like it or not.

  “I seem to recall it’s you who does most of the sniping.” He forked up some pasta.

  “Uh, no. It’s you.” I swirled the food around. Steam billowed up, bringing with it the scent of tarragon. “Why not tell me a bit about yourself, then? So I can get to know you a little. It’ll pass the time.” That had sounded as though I’d listen to anything to relieve boredom, but I was curious as to who he was underneath…underneath what? The Sutton I knew at the Caribbean bar or the Sutton I knew now?

  “All you should concern yourself with is that I’m the man who will keep you safe. Once this is over, we can go our separate ways.”

  For some reason, I didn’t like the sound of that. I’d got used to having him around. “I know quite a lot about you already even though you think I don’t.”

  “You know nothing.” He started eating.

  “Really? So you don’t swing from being a bumbling idiot to a calculated killer, then? Did you take acting classes?”